


Our Fears Face Us

by OkayAristotle



Series: Compatible Differences [4]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Co-Parenting Fish, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, Learning How Not To Be An Asshole, M/M, Protective Slade Wilson, Top Clark Kent, light stabbing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: With things settling down, Clark decides it's time to push a few more of Slade's boundaries. He just didn't expect to push some of his own, as well. It goes about as well as expected. At least the fish is healthy.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Series: Compatible Differences [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766782
Comments: 43
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAA. Really, really huge big thanks to everyone who left a comment or a kudos or who showed the slightest bit of support for this very, very niche ship. Without you, we would not be here. Got lots of stuff to look forward to with this one. 
> 
> Thanks to Kalech for being a good beta and buddy on this.

Clark loves mornings. _Early_ mornings before the sun's fully risen, and long lie-ins with the comforter pulled high. Curtains wide open or pulled tightly, and the slow blinking awake as he flicks through emails on his phone. Rolling from bed and hopping into the shower because he's late _again_. 

Clark loved it all. Night was different. A chance to recharge, or toss and turn. An ending to the difficulties of the day, hitting the reset button. But mornings were special. Always quiet, and a gentle waking was possibly his favorite. 

This— this was the gentlest of wakings. Not something he ever thought he'd think, given his location. 

Slade's arm rests over his neck solidly. Warm breath puffs over the curls of his hair, hot skin pressed against his. Inches from his nose is a hand that's taken countless lives. Clark feels nothing except comfortable. 

He rises from sleep slowly. Drifts up to consciousness and sleepily notes the new surroundings. 

Slade's safehouse. 

All the things that brought him here are a tangle of knots lurking in the back of his mind. The longest days of his life. The up-and-down of Slade's mood, and the trip in a cramped car home, and how Clark had kept his mouth shut when they'd passed through Metropolis entirely and headed into the outskirts. 

The silence in both of them when Slade had fumbled for the keys. Toed the door open and let Clark in — nothing to see besides bare walls and a Spartan apartment. It felt like seeing Slade's insides, and had felt even better when he'd been tugged into bed. 

A nap that turned into a full night of sleep. The best night of sleep. Under the sheets, Clark stretches, a smile tugging his mouth when Slade groans. 

"Morning." He greets, voice cracked with sleep. 

"Fuck off." Slade mumbles. 

"Lovely." Clark replies. Rubs his cheek into the pillow, still smelling faintly of generic soap and whiskey. "It's not that early." 

Nearly eight, if he had to guess. Sunlight peeks through the blinds tentatively, as if asking permission rather than risking Slade's wrath. To prove his point, Slade's hand winds into his hair, tugging ineffectually at Clark's head. 

He gives in easily, content to lay down and listen as Slade's breathing evens out. As his heartbeat slows, a dependable beat in his ribcage. This far out of Metropolis, it's nearly _quiet_. Something so precious when Clark's apartment block is alive at all hours, day or night. 

Slade's apartment is quiet, not even the hum of a refrigerator to keep him awake. Just Slade's breathing, and the warm pump of blood under his skin, and Slade's feet tangled with his. 

Clark loves mornings. This morning more than almost any other, in it's own way. It would beat that morning in the motel, except there weren't pancakes on demand. With great effort, he shifts under the comforter, battling with Slade's insistent weight. Worth it when he can nuzzle into his neck, Slade's skin warm and soft. Incredibly so, for someone so rough in all other ways. 

That had been shocking, before. Startling. The _feel_ of a man like Slade under his hands. The give of muscle, and the soft pooling of blood under bruises. His hair had felt the same, soft despite its bleached nature, and even with the stubble he'd been _soft_ to kiss. 

A warm, inviting interior. It was difficult, sometimes, reconciling the man Slade makes out to be, with the one he is in Clark's bed. 

Still a dick, though. 

He mouths quietly at Slade's neck. A soft junction of shoulder, and along to the fading bruises across his throat. The sharp jut of his larynx that Clark grazes his teeth along. 

The urge to take, slow and careful, is nearly overwhelming. Sink into him with practiced ease, all the better because they're _here._ Slade's apartment. Not a motel. Not Clark's, with the curtains drawn tight. The thought fills him with something childishly excited. It's a step forward, even if it is a small one. 

After so many steps back, it's nice. This is nice. Clark clings onto that feeling as he reaches around under the sheets, fingers exploring warm skin. The curve of a hipbone and barely-there scar tissue. Ridges across his abdomen, and the relaxed set of Slade's shoulders. 

A body that Clark knows intimately by this point. But this part is still new. When they're sleepy, and warm. And Slade is _so_ relaxed, near exhausted. A long few days for the both of them. 

He kisses the underside of his jaw in apology and settles down for good, fully intending to sleep the morning through. A lie-in sounds good. Have lunch late. Spend a few hours re-learning Slade's skin. 

All that goes out the window when his phone rings. 

Slade fumbles for the nightstand the same moment Clark rolls away, groping the floor for discarded trousers. Out of thin air, Slade appears to have produced a _gun_ , waving it in his general direction. 

"Shut it up." He mutters, a petulant edge to his voice. Hasn't even opened his eye yet. Clark rolls his eyes, bats the firearm away, and trusts Slade won't pull the trigger prematurely. 

He likes his phone. He'd hate to replace it again. "Hello." He says, once the line's been picked up. 

"Hello to you, too." Comes the reply, equally tired. _Ah._

Slade cracks his eye open, obviously picking up the voice through the phone. "Wh—what can I do for you?" Clark clears his throat, thick with sleep. 

It feels a little like that first time all over again. The window, and Bruce's cold stare, and Slade on the floor. Stupid. 

"You skipped a League meeting." Bruce states. A question in there somewhere. He never was good at asking what he wanted. Clark winces. 

"I had a thing." 

"A thing." Bruce repeats. "Your _thing_ next to you, by any chance?" The tone is devoid of inflection, but that doesn't mean Clark's _stupid_. Bruce's little talk is still ringing in his ears, weeks later. 

He chews his tongue. "Yes." Ruffled, he pushes up to sit against the headboard. He sighs. "He is. I'll explain later. Did I miss anything important?" 

"I'll explain later." Bruce parrots, and lets the silence rest for a moment. When he speaks again, it's softer. More Bruce, than whatever zombie is currently inhabiting his body at eight in the morning. "Do I need to be worried?" 

He flicks his eyes to Slade. Still reclining in bed, but there's a tenseness now. Blood pumps through the chambers of his heart in double time. "No," Clark murmurs. "I'm fine." 

Over the line, Bruce exhales. "I expect the full details later." 

"Get some sleep." Clark adds, before he can be hung up on. 

Bruce cuts the line. 

"Typical." He snorts. Scrubs his face and feels a thousand years older. 

"He always that short?" Slade asks. Raises an eyebrow pointedly. 

"He just hasn't slept." Clark offers up. "Probably spent all night on patrol." Bruce isn't _always_ that to the point. Or emotionless. Hadn't been the last Clark saw of him, that's for sure. 

"Mm." Slade hums. The gun has been spirited away again, leaving Slade's hands free to reach out and tug on a lock of hair. "Lie down." 

"I'm up now." He sighs. Presses the palm of his hand to his eyes, trying to clear the phone call from his mind. Something to worry about later. Like how he's going to explain _this—_

And yes, he had skipped a meeting. He really wishes he could check a box that said _family emergency_ and leave it at that. But no, Bruce wanted _details._

"I was thinking," Slade murmurs. Traces the curve of his ear with great focus. "I could get you up in a different way." 

Clark snorts. Frowns. Leans into Slade's hand. "You think I can get hard right now?" 

"Figured you could live up to the name, yeah. Man of— and all that." Slade throws back, a tentative smile on his mouth. "Get your mind off the Bat at least. I'd rather he stayed out of my bed." 

"Right," he nods. And Slade is right. It's only fair, after the mess he caused last time. The mess _Clark_ caused. "You can try." He offers, shrugging. "No promises." 

"Always did love a challenge." Slade replies, voice smooth and melting like butter. He doesn't sit up, simply shuffles under the sheets until he's between Clark's thighs. And it is nearly enough right _there_ , just the sight. 

One bright blue eye, and the shock of white hair that catches the light perfectly. Slade's skin still bruised, bearing the marks Clark put into him. 

He grunts at the first touch of a hot mouth, pressed over the cotton of his boxers. A nip of teeth, teasing, dragging Clark along for the ride until his hands tangle into that hair. 

"Eager." Slade murmurs. Doesn't sound displeased. He mouths against him for a while longer. Enough to get him good and hard, the thin fabric between their skin nearly maddening. Feels like nearly nothing at all when all he's done these last few days is _touch._

He's touched Slade's skin in all kinds of ways, and heard the noises he can claw out with clarity in the motel, in the barn, in the car at every rest stop and quiet road. The backseat was done for by the time Slade had dumped it. 

His cheeks color at the memory, earning himself a raised eyebrow. Slade tugs on his underwear, fingers skilled and careful when he grips Clark's cock and pulls him free. 

The kiss he presses to the side of his cock is nearly mocking, the press of teeth persistent behind soft lips. Clark thrusts up. Can't quite contain his moan when Slade takes him in, the point of his tongue pressed against the underside of his cock, scalding hot. 

Feels like forever and no time at all since he last had Slade's mouth. Always surprised by it. The bite of teeth, just the right side of pleasurable. The flat of his tongue, and the inviting nature of his throat— perfect when Slade sinks down, inch by inch. Perfect when Clark forces him down, fingers strong on the back of his neck. 

With nothing else to focus on, he can zero in on the clench in Slade's stomach when Clark's cock bumps the back of his mouth, edging its way in. The trembling in Slade's throat. The hum in Slade's chest when he's filled, nose pressed to Clark's hot skin, eyes screwed shut. 

He groans, and bucks his hips up gently. Carefully. Holds back just a fraction, when it's still morning and he wants nothing more than the heat of Slade's mouth and to preserve the quiet here. 

"Stay put," he murmurs. Presses down when Slade pushes _up_ , holds him there for a second more. Until Slade's nails dig into his hip, and the urge to breathe must be unbearable, and he has no clue what that must feel like— but it does something for Slade. 

His cheeks are turned a healthy pink, blue eye watering when he blinks up at Clark. It's an intensely vulnerable position. He pushes Slade down again, marveling at the lack of resistance. 

There's nothing quite like it. Clark tips his head back, strokes a thumb over the crown of Slade's head. Eases up on the pressure and lets him pull off again, Slade's mouth skilled and hot on his skin. Let's him do what he will, and enjoys every second of it. Comes with a satisfied groan far quicker than he'd like. 

"Fuck," Clark pants. Grunts when Slade suckles on the head of his cock _hard._ _"_ _Ah."_ Slade's hand squeezes gently around him, one lazy jerk of his wrist that wrings the last of his come onto Slade's tongue. 

"That was good." Slade comments, intensely pleased. His voice has that quality that Clark's learned he _loves._ Raw and warm. Slade swallows sharply. "I could still sleep." 

"I could eat." Clark counters. 

"Good luck," Slade replies. He tucks Clark back into his underwear, still wet with spit, of course, and then folds his arm over Clark's hips. "Nothing to eat."

"I can fly." Clark points out, rather dumbly. Half his brain is still stuck in blowjob mode, apparently. Very good blowjob mode. He'll edit that part out for Bruce later. "Could get food." 

"You want to leave this bed?" Slade snorts. Rests his chin on his forearms and stares at Clark from under pale lashes. "I sure don't." 

"Some of us have things to do." Right then, nothing really jumps out at him. But he did disappear for a few days, and there's probably a dozen articles and interviews to be done now. He frowns. 

"Could do me." 

"I just did." Clark murmurs. Reaches out and settles a hand into Slade's hair, fingers weaving in until he's got a good grip. Slade hums, daring. "You should eat, too." 

"You my mother now?" 

"Slade." 

"That is me." He murmurs. Leans into Clark's grip. 

"Don't be a brat." 

A second of silence, and then Slade tilts his head, meeting Clark's gaze side-on. "Or what?" Clark's pretty sure his dick pulses in his boxers for a hot second with all the thoughts that conjures, and all the ways Clark could deal with a brat like Slade. 

"Or I'll have you explain to Batman yourself what happened the last few days." He finally says, voice tight. Absolutely sure his face has turned a particular shade of red. 

"No thanks." Slade replies, smile turned lazy. Smug. Clark dips a thumb into his mouth to shut him up, because he can, because Slade looks downright sinful when his gaze flutters and his tongue swipes across the pad of his thumb. 

When he's sure Slade's going to stay quiet, he pulls out, tempted to wipe the saliva across his cheek. "I'm going for a shower." 

"Have fun." Slade says. "I'm going back to sleep." He licks the corner of his mouth, fixing Clark with a look that says he's missing out. 

It takes some shuffling, but eventually Clark can slide out of bed. He hesitates at the foot, watching Slade make himself comfortable again, one arm wrapped around a pillow. He then promptly falls back asleep. 

Clark smiles to himself and then heads off to go and try a few doors, looking for a suitable shower. 

* * *

It's not on-demand, but Clark does get decently clothed enough to pick up the makings of pancakes. He makes do in the kitchen, with limited supplies and two forks, a spoon, and far too many knives at his disposal. 

Nobody needs four steak knives. Slade has four steak knives. 

It's appalling. 

Difficult to judge when the apartment is empty. Nothing of note, nothing to say someone lives there. And perhaps most importantly, he doesn't know if it ever did have that.

Slade had murmured something about moving back in, halfway to sleep under the crook of Clark's arm. Whatever was taken out can't have been _much_. It's… saddening. Looking around and finding no dust spots where pictures could be, no empty spaces where things belong. 

Just plain carpets, generic soap, and four steak knives. 

Ready to go at a moments notice, he supposes. The purpose of a safehouse. But _living_ here— it's cold. It's empty. 

He makes pancakes in silence, and uses his phone for a hit of music when it becomes too much. Quiet radio stations mingle with the steady heartbeat the next room over, and it feels not _good,_ but a little better. Alright. 

It takes a while, but he finds a skillet, and figures out the stove with minimal fuss. The batter is not the best, but he doubts Slade would complain. For good measure, he adds a handful of blueberries and leaves the lopsided pancakes to cook. 

The difference is at every turn unsettling. So very different from making lunch at Clark's own apartment. He watches the pancakes cook with furrowed eyebrows and crossed arms, hovering a few inches above the tiled floor. 

If this is Slade's normal. If this has always been his normal. Well, it leaves unease in his gut, and a determination to make sure these are the best pancakes he's ever had, possibly. 

He returns with a shared plate of pancakes and more syrup than should legally be allowed in his hands, face cleared of the tangle of emotion happening inside. Slade is still sleeping, of course, but that hardly matters. 

He'd take a picture, if he didn't have pancakes in his hands. Slade makes a noise, both intrigued and annoyed, and cuddles his pillow tighter. 

"Made pancakes." 

"The fuck you'd do that for." Slade mutters. Presses his face into the other pillow, and groans. 

Clark raises an eyebrow. "I can eat them myself if you want." He _could_ — he's starving. Not a lot of time for eating, when he's stuck in a car for hours at a time, nothing but gas stations available. Or Slade. 

He's rather distracting when he wants to be. 

"I'll shoot you." Slade murmurs. "Blueberry?" 

"Yeah," Clark climbs onto the bed carefully, plate held high. He settles at the head of the bed, fighting a smile when Slade sits up, pillow creases on his skin. "Hungry?" 

"Starving." Slade replies, one eye laser focused on the offered plate. Clark hands him a fork, and stifles a laugh at the large bite Slade immediately stuffs into his mouth. Nearly half a pancake in one go. "Someone's been testing my endurance." 

"Wonder who that could be." Clark hums, taking a more conservative mouthful. Sweet syrup coats his mouth, nearly overpowering the sharpness of the fruit, and he can't quite keep back a moan. 

They eat mostly in silence, which is nice. He likes that about Slade. The car ride had been mostly quiet, with brief bouts of chatter or particular remarks about pedestrians. No radio, and no discussing the last two days. Slade had the practiced ability to both be absolutely silent at times, and near impossible to shut up at others. Whichever Slade he got on any given day was pure guesswork, and could change quicker than Clark could keep up with. 

But he liked _this_ — quiet, and eating, and leaning in to lick syrup from the roof of Slade's mouth just because he can. Slade meets him halfway on the second kiss, tongue dipping into Clark's mouth, not a fight in the slightest. Clark hums, and pulls back only to fork more pancakes into his mouth. 

"You're awfully calm." Slade comments, after most of the pancakes are done with. Two left, and they both slow down. "Considering." 

"Considering what?" 

"Considering you're getting sent to the principal's office." Slade snorts. Licks his fork clean with a raised eyebrow. 

"I'm not—" He huffs. Chews thoughtfully. "He's not mad." 

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." 

"He's not." He sighs. Tries to put into words the certainty that he has about that. Explaining the particulars of Bruce's moods was difficult on a good day, let alone to a man like Slade. "He's concerned." 

"About me." Slade adds. "Ergo, he's pissed, because you're in my bed." 

"He's concerned about me." Clark corrects. Winces at the reminder, and the talk, and there had been no _yelling_ because Clark didn't need that. But Bruce had a way of doing it without ever raising his voice. "The effect this will have." 

"And what effect is that?" Slade prods. His fork scrapes against the plate, a painfully jarring sound in the quiet room. Beneath that, he can hear Slade's heart, practically thundering in his chest. 

Clark swallows. Tastes sweet syrup and sharp blueberries. Too much flour in the pancakes. _You'll get attached,_ Bruce had said _._ "Does it matter?" 

By Slade's silence, it does. When he looks, there's a tense line between his eyebrows and a mouthful of pancake clenched between his teeth. "Have it your way." He finally says, and sets his fork down a little sharply. 

Clark winces, syrup curdling in his stomach. "Slade." 

"Yes." 

"He's just looking out for me." He finally says, struggling with each word. It feels like a lie, even if it's the simple truth. Bruce's words stick like glue, and they had been _startling_ in the moment. 

But he sees it now. _Feels_ it, when he can watch Slade lock up, suddenly alone in their bed. The man beside him is cold and reserved. Clark itches to reach out. 

He finishes the pancakes in silence, and takes the dishes to the sink, and doesn't play any music. Halfway through drying his hands, he hears the shower sputter to life, and breathes a little easier. 

Nothing's ruined just yet, even if things are _precarious._ While Slade's busy, he straightens out the bed, and sends Bruce enough of a text to soothe his stress when he wakes. Things seem a little better once he's pulled the blinds, light flooding in, the morning in full swing. 

Much better than a motel. 

Slade takes possibly the longest shower ever. Might be just to make Clark squirm, in which case it works. Feels like torture to sit on the edge of the bed and wait, and eventually Clark shoves his hands under his thighs just to keep still. 

"I'm sorry." He blurts, before the door's even fully opened. 

Slade raises an eyebrow, still dripping water. Still very naked, and wet, and the towel around his waist is fucking _useless_ when Clark can see through _walls_ — 

"You can make it up to me." Slade says, and Clark knows it's okay from that alone. Not perfect, but the proverbial door is left ajar, enough for Clark to get his fingers in and pry it open. Slade lets him. 

"Okay," Clark mumbles. Sits still like an idiot, and simply _looks_. Drinks in the hard-won muscle, and the jagged scars that litter his skin. The way his hair curls at his ears when it's wet, dripping onto his shoulders. 

Slade moves quietly, a perfected skill, and settles onto Clark's lap like he belongs there. He cocks his head. "Don't fucking lie to me again." 

"I—" 

"You did." Slade cuts in. Stabs a finger into the hollow of his throat. "Whatever you didn't want to say — be fucking straight, and just say that." 

He holds Clark's gaze like a vise, suddenly intense. The sharpness there is— not unexpected, he should be used to it by now. But at odds with the way Slade's body sinks into his, the comfort there. 

He sets his hands on the other man's hips, thumbs hooked into the towel. "I don't want to talk about it." He murmurs. Holds Slade's gaze just as intensely, and hopes he finds what he's searching for. 

Slade reaches up, fingers light for a second before he pats Clark's cheek. "Good boy." 

He snorts, ducking out of the touch. "You're a menace." 

"Like it doesn't get you going." Slade murmurs, nearly cut off when Clark leans in and suckles on his jaw. It takes a fraction of pressure, so small it's unbelievable, to have Slade grinding down, a moan in his throat. Slade's hands dig into his shirt, holding on tightly.

"Maybe it does." He hums. "Maybe I just like—" he grinds up, circles his hips at the perfect angle to choke another moan from him. "—putting you in your place."

"Now that's the spirit." Slade mumbles. Leans in close to bite Clark's shoulder, thighs spreading a little more. "You gonna fuck me or talk all day?" 

Clark's hands flex. "I can do both." 

"Shut up," Slade laughs, the tension fully broken. His laugh is rare, and goes straight to Clark's ribcage, rich and warm, full of life. He presses kisses under his ear, and works the towel away, resists the urge to lean back and just _look_. 

Instead, he finds other ways to take Slade in. Runs his hands over rough scars and the sharp edge of his hips. Finds his cock, already hard, and wraps his palm around it tightly. Slade hums lowly, a sound that goes straight to _his_ cock, and bucks into his hand. 

"I don't think you're going to make it." He comments lightly. Drags his mouth from the scratch of Slade's beard to his mouth, pleased when he opens up, still tasting faintly of syrup. 

"What can I say," Slade pants, breath warm against his face. Clark bucks up, driving Slade's cock into the tight circle of his fingers. "You piss me off. Gets me going." 

"Yeah?" Clark rumbles. Bites his lip until he tastes salt and blood. A taste he's become intimately familiar with these last few months. A lot of things have become familiar, but this one sticks. 

Sometimes, Slade breaks under his strength so nicely it almost scares him. How good he looks with red smeared across his skin and Clark's teeth marked into the soft flesh of his mouth. He does it again, just to hear Slade's breathy moan, just to see his chest rise and fall in sharp lungfuls of air. 

In his hand, Slade's cock twitches, and Clark sets the pace as quick as he can bear. Torn between getting him done now, hearing that beautiful sound when he comes and goes boneless— and leaving him there, caught on the edge, and if he pushes any more he'll _beg._

Slade's hand wraps around his own and decides for them both. He tightens over Clark's fingers, hard enough it _must_ hurt, and kisses him with teeth and tongue. Jerks himself off with quick, unrefined strokes, and when that isn't enough, he bucks into their hands. 

When he comes, it's with his teeth buried in Clark's lip, one hand in his hair. Come spills from his cock, smeared into Clark's shirt, over both their knuckles. Slade's moan feels electrifying, the other man pulling back to rest his head on Clark's shoulder.

Clark licks his hand clean, a smile catching the corner of his mouth when Slade freezes. Watches. Turns a darker shade of pink, his gaze heavy on Clark's knuckles. 

"Well that shirt's ruined." He comments, voice rough. 

Clark snorts. "Guess it's my turn to steal your clothes?" 

"You wish." Slade murmurs. Wipes down with the towel and discards it entirely, leaning back in Clark's hands. "Everything's at Wintergreen's." 

"You've got nothing here?" He winces. "At all?" 

"I've got your shit." Slade shrugs. "Didn't bring it with me." The reminder is cooling when _that_ little argument feels worlds away. Like such a long time ago, between entirely different people. 

It was them. Not two days ago. Slade still wears the marks, slowly but surely healing. 

He nods, muted, and only moves when Slade slides from his lap to retrieve his clothes. "I'll have him bring my stuff back this week." He comments. "Or go get it myself." 

Clark watches quietly as he shuffles on underwear, combs through his hair, Slade's gaze fixed on the open window.

"You're sticking around." He finally says. Wants to hear it. 

Slade shakes out his shirt, pulling it on with a grunt. "Don't get weird about it." 

"I wasn't." 

"You're smiling like an idiot." He throws back, and yes, God yes, Clark is. "Your stuff is in there." He kicks a foot out in the vague direction of the wardrobe, and then ducks out of the room. 


	2. Chapter 2

For once, Alfred doesn't get the door. It's Bruce. As far as Clark's concerned, that's why he can't quite form a greeting on his tongue, suddenly choked. 

There is a routine to things like this. Alfred gets the door. They both make a comment about the weather. Clark mentions an article, and Alfred tells him how Bruce is _truly_ doing. 

And then Bruce goes and shakes that up. He's well-put together, as always. Hair shiny, suit crisp. Stands tall in the doorway and does _not_ smile with his eyes, mouth tugged into the one that Clark hates. The fake one. 

"Bruce." He says, rather dumbly. It's early evening, sunlight warming his skin, and he was invited. Still wishes he could sink into the floor, escape Bruce's piercing stare. 

Bruce tilts his head an inch. "Clark. Come in." He sweeps aside, a perfectly controlled movement and Clark gets the feeling he's being welcomed into the lion's den. 

"Alfred okay?" He asks, because he needs to. He'd hate not to ask, if it was the one time the older man was unwell, indisposed. 

He wouldn't put it past Bruce not to mention. 

"He's fine." Bruce replies, easy and quiet. Closes the large, oak door and locks them both inside. "Busy with the boys, I assume." 

"Right," Clark nods. And then they both stand there. In the foyer, with the rising staircase, and the chandelier, and the sound of Bruce's heartbeat echoing in his ribs. Fast, but not panicked. Not angry. 

That's good. 

"Shall we?" Bruce motions. From memory, Clark knows the steps and turns, Bruce quiet at his side on their way to a familiar lounge. 

Two armchairs and a little coffee table already set up. A large, dark painting of Gotham's cityscape looms above them, a silent reminder. 

"You're nervous." Bruce comments. He pours two measured mugs of coffee, adds creamer to both. Sugar to Bruce's own. When he sits back, he's nothing but the picture of relaxed, one ankle resting on his knee. 

"I'm not nervous." He rebuffs. Fiddles with the little china cup anyway, annoyed at how delicate it feels between his palms. Almost comically small, if he's being honest, and he'll never quite be over the ridiculous things Bruce owns. 

Tiny cups with autumn leaves weaving chains around the rim. 

Bruce hums. 

"Look," Clark sighs. "I'm sorry, alright? I should have called." 

"Maybe." Bruce agrees. "But you didn't." There's a question buried in there, Bruce leaving it unspoken but loud nonetheless. 

"I was busy." Clark replies. Incredibly busy. In the barn. And the motel. And the road home, more detours than either of them could justify to find somewhere _quiet_. 

The backseat of Slade's car had been appalling, by the time he'd dumped it outside of Metropolis. Clark fights down a persistent flush. Drinks his coffee and avoids Bruce's gaze. 

"Busy." He repeats. Doesn't take a detective to figure out what that might mean. Clark's eyes slip closed briefly, more than embarrassed enough. 

"I'm sorry." 

"You skipped a League meeting to _fuck_ a _wanted criminal._ " Bruce states. Spells it out with a laugh tacked on. "Who knew you had it in you." 

"Shut up." He sighs. "It wasn't like that." 

"So you didnt fuck?" The antique armchair creaks when Bruce leans back, one dark eyebrow raised. "Was that before or after he tried to murder your parents?" 

Clark flinches. "He didn't know." Really regretted filling Bruce in on the bare bones over text. It gave the wrong impression. Possibly. "He didn't— when he realised—" 

"And if it wasn't them," Bruce says, an odd quality to his voice. Muted. "Someone else. Another couple. Someone else's parents." 

Clark's coffee tastes incredibly bitter, for something so expensive. One city over, and Slade is taking a nap, sleeping off the last bout of sex, no doubt. Sleeping sound in his bed before he gets back to work during the night.

Clark knows that. He _knows._ And all that saved them was a picture on a wall. He fucking _knows._

"It's not like I'm— I'm fine with it—" He tries, words already hollow. "I know what he does, Bruce." 

"I just want you to picture it, for a moment." He says. "Really think about it." Sips his coffee like they're talking about the weather, or a cold case, or something that doesn't feel like a _knife_ in Clark's gut. Slow and serrated, bleeding him dry all over Bruce's nice antique furniture. "Your parents. Your home. And he's killed them. Not just that, but he pocketed the money. That's all it was to him. A paycheck." 

"You don't need to do this." He bites out. Stares at Bruce's nice, polished shoe, perched on his knee. "I'm not oblivious." 

"I just want you to think about that," Bruce murmurs. "And tell me you're still going to see him tonight." 

"Christ, Bruce—" he sets his cup down a little harshly, coffee spilling over the rim. "Don't do this." 

Rather than reply to that, he changes course. Abrupt and unexpected, all of Clark's irritation diffuses, caught off guard. "How long have we known each other, Clark?" 

"What does that have to do with this?" 

"Answer the question." 

"I— I don't know. Nearly a decade?" He scrubs at his hair, pulling hard, something to focus on that isn't the pressure building behind his eyes. "About that long." 

"All that time." He agrees. "And you think I wouldn't understand." 

Clark's mouth clicks shut. "What." 

"How about instead of panicking like a schoolboy," Bruce tries, and now his eyes smile along with his mouth, the rim of his mug pressed to his lip. "You tell me why even after all that, you're still going to see him tonight." 

"Bruce." He says. Nothing comes after that, when Clark has spent months trying to do exactly that. 

He can't— can't put into words, the specific feeling Slade evokes. The English language doesn't have the vocabulary to capture how Clark feels every time he catches that rare, sharp smile. When Slade is opened up and vulnerable, laid bare on Clark's sheets. 

He rifles through every language he knows, Earth-side and otherwise, and comes up blank each time. 

The sharp, soft edge of Slade's smile, such a rare thing when it's genuine. How _sacred_ it feels sometimes, a secret that Slade slips him every time they fall into bed. How good he sounds, in Clark's sheets, on Clark's cock. 

The particular brand of _alive_ that Clark feels, when he's pushed and pulled along, when Slade's moods switch at the drop of a hat and he is _never_ slow where it counts, always bounds ahead. He sees it, happening behind Slade's single, piercing eye. 

Nothing can quite capture — only that it does. Clark _feels_ , even knowing what he does. Even seeing him in action. 

It shouldn't— it shouldn't _add_ , when he's seen Slade in a fight. The energy and precision. All that skill, and he lets Clark rip him apart in quiet places. All that power, and he gives it up with nothing more than a grin and a come-on. 

When he looks up, finally able to meet the other man's eyes, Clark scratches over his earlier assumption. 

Bruce may be tailored and gelled, but it's nothing more than a thin veneer. Dark circles line his eyes, and his hand grips his mug loosely, dirt beneath his fingernails. The buttons of his shirt hide nothing more than bruises and bandages. 

He's tired. As tired as Clark feels. Bruce tips his mouth, as if he knows he's been found out. 

"When's the last time you slept?" He asks quietly. 

"This morning." Bruce replies. Which is a bold lie, when they talked at past eight. "Enough." 

"I don't know why I'm— Why it's _him_ —" Clark stops and starts. He's already said more than he even _knows._ "It just is." 

Bruce sips his coffee. "I'd offer to meet him, as best friends tend to do," he murmurs. "But I don't think that would go over well." 

"You _did_ scare the shit out of him." 

"You did, actually." Bruce shrugs a heavy shoulder. "If Deathstroke was the type to get scared." 

_He is_ , Clark wants to say. Has no basis for it. He's never seen him afraid, truly. There was a brief flicker, in Kansas. Clark's hand around his throat. So breakable. So resolved, even then. 

Even then, he knows it's true, despite what Slade would like them all to believe. 

"I handled it badly, I am aware." He coughs. "We all did." 

"Maybe." 

Clark squints. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"It means that maybe you needed a wake-up." He offers mildly. "Did you really think you could keep it quiet forever?" 

"No," Clark bites his tongue. "But _right then?_ " He sighs. "You could not have picked a worse time to climb through my window, Bruce." 

"About ten minutes later would have been worse, in my book." Bruce replies. Clark stares. The flat edge of his mouth cracks, a tired smile there. 

"I can't believe you." Clark mutters. Feels a laugh bubble in his chest, the sheer ridiculousness of it nearly overwhelming all of a sudden. Hysterical, in the worst way possible, and the last week settles on his shoulders _finally._ "Fuck." 

"Indeed." Bruce rumbles. He tips his cup back, hiding his smile. "You really know how to make a mess, I'll give you that." 

"Christ," he mumbles. "Don't I know it." 

Bruce gives him a generous moment of quiet. Lets things return to their baseline, and Clark is grateful for it. He rests his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the painting above them, all darkened skyline and little pinpricks of light. 

He's more tired than he thought. The kind that a good night's sleep and better morning can't quite fix. The last week alone has felt impossibly long, nothing but an onslaught since Slade left. Since he made him leave. 

He frowns. "Ma's fine, by the way. Pa, too." 

"I assumed." Bruce snorts. "On account of Deathstroke still kicking." He doesn't sound particularly pleased, but Clark can't— it's unfair to expect that. 

He's never going to get that from Bruce. Not with this. He knows that, and hoping for anything different is his problem. He swallows heavily. 

"Did I miss anything at the meeting?" 

Bruce picks imaginary lint from his pressed slacks. "They're always important." 

"So I didn't miss anything." 

"Don't make it a habit." He cuts in. "It can't happen again." He's hardly the first to skip a meeting, but Clark knows he's right anyway. There is a standard to uphold. In Superman most of all. 

"Got it." He nods. "I'll tell him not to run off the next time we have a meeting scheduled. Maybe send him my calendar." 

"Don't get funny," Bruce admonishes. "Next time he runs, let him." 

"You know I can't." Clark sighs, and picks his coffee back up just for something to do. Anything to focus on that isn't the softness at the edge of Bruce's eyes, dangerously close to sympathy. 

"I warned you." 

"I was already there." He huffs. "You know me, Bruce. Of course I was there." _You'll get attached._ Yeah, he was attached the moment Slade pointed a gun at him, all confidence and demands. The first time his gaze had fluttered closed, one warm hand in his. 

When he'd watched the mercenary melt away, replaced with the man that Clark is trying — desperately — to know. 

"I know," Bruce agrees, voice light. Thin. "Still bears saying. Even if it won't change things." 


	3. Chapter 3

Clark's apartment is a sight for sore eyes. He's welcomed home by well-fed fish, and leftovers still good in the fridge. Feels like months since he's last set foot in here, when it's only been days at most. Clark shucks his jacket, leaving it on the couch, too tired to do anything more than reheat food and stumble his way to bed. 

He should have known it wouldn't be that simple. Taking up the majority of his bed is, of course, Slade. The rest of the bed is taken up by a large pool of blood. 

Clark freezes in the doorway, and numbly tries to decide if it's worth putting his plate down for. 

"Don't rush on my behalf." Slade mumbles. He cracks open an eye, glassy with pain. One orange boot hangs over the edge of the bed — not the strange, black suit he's taken to wearing. Less protection. 

Clark's fingers tighten on his plate. "Do I even want to know?" 

"Probably not." He snorts, cutting off with a groan. The suit is darkened enough with blood he can't make out the wound without a little help, and when he does the culprit becomes clear. 

"Who ran you through with a sword." 

"Some asshole with a sword." Slade replies dryly. Blood isn't quite _pouring_ out of him, but the damage is still there. Healing, but slowly. Under the suit, Clark watches muscle and tissue knit itself back together, nearly audible. 

He sets his plate down on the bed, suddenly off his food. 

"What can I do?" He asks, and if he sounds more like the cape right then, that's his own business. "Stay put." 

"Wasn't about to run a marathon, if you were worried." Slade says. Despite the joke, there's tension under his breath, a sharp quality to the rise and fall of his chest. "Hurts like a bitch." 

"I bet." Clark murmurs. One knee on the bed is too much, Slade sinking towards him with a hiss, and so Clark floats. He touches the suit carefully, gently, and feels for the releases and latches. 

"Who did this to you?" 

"Why, you going to throw them in jail like a good little superhero?" He throws back. Clark keeps his mouth shut on that one, and works the suit off of Slade in pieces, careful when the fabric sticks to his abdomen. 

It's not pretty. It might scar. He doesn't know. The wound is wide, and all the way through.

His hands shake. "Slade." He murmurs. 

Clark has seen countless people — fragile, human people, with all kinds of wounds. Crushed bones, and blood pouring from the nastiest gashes. Burns and bullet wounds. Through windshields and out of windows. Nothing but a wet, red splatter on the sidewalk. Slade isn't fragile, and barely human. He bleeds like one, though. The hiss between his teeth is the same. His skin sweats the same, cold with shock, and Clark is too fucking _frozen_ to move for a second. 

He sets his hands on the smooth planes of Slade's stomach, bracketing the wound. "It'll heal?" 

"Just needs time." Slade bites out. "Hasn't been that long." 

"Why didn't you call." 

"I was bleeding everywhere." He throws back, flapping one hand at the sheets. Even that seems too much for him right then, his head dropping to the pillow heavily. "Can you just— be quiet. Get some water. Antiseptic." 

"Right," he can do that. He can walk, stiff and numb, and pull a basin from under the sink. Fill it with warm water, testing the temperature with numb hands. 

When he returns, Slade is sitting, just barely. More like slumped over, and it takes the both of them to get him propped up. Blood oozes from the wound slowly with each shift and jostle.

"Okay, now what." 

"Just be quiet." Slade mumbles. He screws his eye shut, skin pale. There's blood in his hair, smeared across his cheek. 

Clark reaches out and wipes it away with the edge of the washcloth. Slade sighs. 

"Fuckin' hate Gotham." 

"It's not so bad." Clark says. Nothing could shake the softness from his voice right then, watching Slade stitch himself back together. "I spoke to Bruce." 

He hums. 

"Told you he's not pissed off." He reaches out again, and dabs the cloth down Slade's clammy throat, the bruised ring around his neck. It's more faded by the second now, healing along with the hole punched through his middle. 

Clark frowns. Wishes he could touch the torn edges of Slade's skin, leech the hurt from there. He's seen Deathstroke take far worse, read reports and covered some of the news himself. It's never felt quite so _real,_ hands hovering over Slade's skin, filled with fear. He probably deserved it. Whatever he was doing in Gotham. Clark rifles through case files in his mind anyway, hoping for a sword to match. 

"It'll heal." Slade murmurs. When he opens his eye, it's slow. Like rising from sleep, but worse, the edges of his face pinched. 

"You're bleeding everywhere. And trying to make _me_ feel better?" He nearly laughs. All it does is settle in his chest, thick with emotion. "Slade." 

"Mm?" 

"Why's it taking so long?" 

"Poisoned." He murmurs. The usual sharpness in his gaze is gone, replaced with a blurry quality. Unfocused. "Don't get that look. It happens." 

"I didn't have a look." 

"You did." Slade prods him in the thigh. "Same look you get when the news is on. Wondering if you need to get involved." He shifts, more blood leaking from the wound, but it's smaller now that Clark looks. Thinner, and less swollen. "You don't. I'm a big boy." 

"I wasn't—" 

"You were." He sighs. "I'm not arguing with you right now." His hand settles on Clark's thigh fully, squeezing weakly. "I'm fine, so stop freaking out." 

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting—" 

"I know." Slade cuts in. "Me neither." Which brings up another question, and Clark considers him quietly as he mulls it over. Slade relaxes by the minute into the headboard, Clark's sheets sticky with blood. 

He came here, but passed the safehouse on his way. 

"You're an idiot," Clark murmurs quietly, damn near fondly. Tentatively, he wets the cloth again, pressing it over the wound. Slade hisses, but stays put for the assault. "I had plans for you tonight." 

"Oh?" Slade grunts. 

"I can hardly fuck you _now_ , like this." He mutters. Flicks a smile Slade's way. "Well, not how I wanted to, at least." 

"Y'know, I'm feeling better already." Slade mumbles, a blatant lie when he turns a shade paler. "Give me a second and you can have all the fun you want." He keeps his face straight for the longest minute, and then breaks, a smile playing on his lips. "What're you reading?" His eyes flick to the nightstand, a stack of books precariously balanced on one corner. A diversion if Clark's ever heard one. 

"A book." He sighs. "It's these sheets of paper, got words on them." 

"Asshole," Slade murmurs, but there's amusement behind his glassy eyes, the crease between his eyebrows starting to fade. Clark looks to his hands, still sticky with blood, and dunks them into the basin, scrubbing clean. 

"You can't stay in these sheets all night."

Slade grins. "Afraid of a little blood?" 

"You mean half the blood in your body? Yeah." Clark frowns, not quite sure how to deal with… all this. Wounds are one thing. Slade's guts spilling out of his abdomen — or worse, through the _exit wound_ — is a different matter entirely. "You trust me?" 

"About as much as I can throw you." Slade murmurs, a dry edge to his voice. "What do you think?" When he focuses on Clark, there's a dull light in his eye, the blues muted. "Why?" 

"Just, stay still, okay?" He says. Superman's smile takes over his face, briefly. Trustworthy. Steady. Not too much teeth, but enough it doesn't seem fake. Slade frowns. "This'll be quick." 

"How— " Slade slows, his eyes fixed on Clark, and it is— a brief moment where Clark gets to do nothing but look. Take in the tint of red in the strands of his hair, the lamp as it reflects in Slade's glassy gaze. The curve of his mouth, half-forming a word. Super-speed is infinitely useful. The sheets are changed, Slade is stripped down to boxers, and deposited onto fresh sheets. One dry towel under the wound, for any more blood that tries to trickle free. 

"— fast— _Fucking motherfucker."_ Slade shouts. Curls in on himself briefly, a heated glare sent Clark's way, full of venom. 

Clark sits back on his heels and tilts his head. "Sorry." 

Slade's throat works silently for a tense moment, his jaw clenched tight. Both hands grip the sheets, a slight tremble on the one closest to him. "Don't do that again." He grunts. 

"Got it done quick." He says, rather than apologize again. Slade mutters something unintelligible, probably curses, and lets his head fall back on the pillows. 

"You're an awful nurse." 

"I'm not a nurse." Clark replies. "And you turned up in _my_ bed, by the way." Not that he minds. Well, he minds a little. The sheets will need trashed. A lot of things Slade gets his hands on need trashed, actually. 

Slade doesn't reply, simply holds his gaze. Whatever's going on upstairs is a mystery, as carefully held to his chest as a winning poker hand. He doesn't flinch when Clark reaches out, though, letting him sink a few fingers into the tangled strands of his hair, sticky with blood. 

"You gonna read to me, or what." Slade mumbles. He leans into the touch, just a slight tilt of his head that makes Clark's heart do something ridiculous, something both painful and incredibly pleasurable. 

He rubs his thumb over a streak of blood. "Sure. Yeah." He can do that. Easier than playing triage with Slade's wounds and sore spots. It takes some fumbling, but he grabs his food, sets the water on the floor, and rifles through the stack of books. 

Slade sighs when he settles beside him, sitting on the pillows. "What're you in the mood for?" 

"Anything." He mutters. Tilts his head until it rests against Clark's hip, nearly nuzzling. 

Hesitantly, Clark's hand settles into his hair again, the other one focused on displacing books until he finds something suitably long. Barely registers the title, or the author, or the contents, before he's prying it open with one hand, trying to focus on the printed words. "You okay?"

"M'fine." Slade replies. With his eye closed, the tension begins slipping from his face, replaced with something close to calm. 

Clark eats his leftovers. Untangles Slade's hair methodically, working the tangles from it with gentle fingers. Can't quite help himself when he begins tracing the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw, and the vulnerable column of his throat. Reads quietly, stilted at first. Barely remembers the last time he read aloud, when there's not many people to read _to,_ but he settles into the rhythm quickly. 

It's quiet. If Slade wasn't healing from a gut wound, he'd call it perfect. But it's good. Good enough. 

The rustle of pages against each other, and Clark's own voice pitched low settles them both. Eventually, Slade's breathing evens out, and when Clark looks his eye has slipped shut, not asleep yet but close. Safe, in a way. He came here, and that _means_ something. Even if it can't be said. He's still breathing, still leaning into Clark's gentle touch, blood coursing through his veins at a healthy rate. 

He's fine. Will be fine, as soon as he's not _poisoned._ Clark kind of hates Gotham, too. Despite his appetite being nearly destroyed, he finishes all his leftovers in silence, letting it settle his stomach now that the adrenaline's gone. 

"The League." 

Clark blinks. Finds himself staring back at one blue eye, cracked open only a slit. 

"It was the League." Slade says. With that, he closes his eye again, shifting on the pillows with a grunt. "And no, I don't need your help." 

Clark's brow knits together as he digests that. He doesn't know _much_ about the League of Assassins, but he knows enough. Slade's work is… dangerous, at the best of times. But crossing the League is— 

He traces the shell of Slade's ear, listens to the blood pumping through his heart. "Okay." He nods. "They going to come after you?" 

"Maybe." He shrugs his shoulder tiredly. "I'll figure it out." 

"Alright," Clark murmurs tightly. Words climb up his throat. Soft, little things about being safe, about staying _here._ He chews them down like gravel. "Get some rest." 

Slade hums, and it's the last noise he gets from him the whole night. Clark doesn't sleep, and maps the softened edges of Slade's face instead. 


	4. Chapter 4

The Justice League has regular meetings. Clark has attended many. Dozens, if not hundreds in all his years in the League. 

They always follow the same format, and could be done with his eyes closed, not that Bruce appreciates hearing that. Normally, they don't require much input from Clark himself, besides a debrief and a healthy dose of small talk before and after. This time, the room's rather silent. Bruce's eyes rest on him heavily, hooded under white lenses. It feels a lot like being abandoned at sea. 

He's never been good at explaining himself. Handing in late homework was always laden with stuttered words, eyes on his shoes. _Family emergency_ had become his mantra over the years, and whether Perry bought that or not was up for debate, but it worked. 

Felt disingenuous to say that now, even if it does rather succinctly cover it, sans Slade's involvement. 

Hal spends the majority of the Clark's small speech with a raised eyebrow under his domino, leaned back in his chair to a worrying degree. Clark talks, and talks some more, and feels like he hasn't taken a single breath of oxygen since he entered the room. 

It feels like lying. It feels like dishonesty, the kind Slade would be proud of, a sleight of hand that he never intended to make. Keeping this secret was — unfortunate. 

But it was easier when it was passive. When nobody asked. Clark braces himself against it, digs his nails into his palms as he stands at the head of the table. He looks into each of their eyes and lies his ass off, and Hal's raised eyebrow feels like a nail in his coffin. 

He's supposed to be trustworthy. Of all the things he can — and should — be, trustworthy is damn near the top. The hum of the Watchtower is nearly deafening, when he reaches his senses out for a scrap of distraction. Out here, he's alone, drifting in the empty, inky expanse of space, and Bruce leaves him to it. 

The room's rather quiet when he's done. 

"Well," Diana murmurs. "That's understandable." 

It's very much not. Clark sits with the grace of a man suffering from clinical shock, or maybe a case of the jelly-legs. He feels both exhausted and relieved, to be off the proverbial podium for now. 

"Won't happen again." Clark replies, voice a little thin. It's not, in the grand scheme of things, a particularly black lie. He'll live. They'll move on. Slade will never know the personal rules Clark breaks in his name. 

And then Diana adds, a small curl to the corner of her mouth, "You didn't need to stand on ceremony."

He flushes, kind of wants to sink into his seat. All things considered, it's not the worst infraction he could have made. Barely registers, if he's being honest. Doesn't stop it from feeling like a stone in his gut, the long moments of making his excuses feeling like— like forever. All in all, it was five minutes. Clark swallows heavily, curls his fingers into his cape. 

Things will be fine. 

"Moving on?" Barry asks, setting an elbow on the large, rounded table. He flicks a look Clark's way, and then just as smoothly avoids him. 

The meeting moves on, and Clark licks his wounds in silence, and does his best to be present for the debrief, the post-meeting small talk, and the next month's agenda. Bruce claps him on the shoulder, of all things, an entirely uncharacteristic move, and Clark knows it's time to go. He really can't stand to look any of them in the eye, right then. The knowledge of Slade is a heavy weight in his chest, sinking him like a stone. At least it's sobering, nearly as much as Bruce's presence had been that night, and the morning after. 

He finds himself in the observatory, nothing but inches of glass and sheets of metal, circuitry, between him and the vacuum of space. He's always liked this room. 

Hal likes it, too. 

There's no surprise when he finds him there, hands clasped behind his back. Eyes glassy and unfocused, staring out at the world as it spins down below. He finds himself watching the little, quiet Eastern seaboard, a comfortable distance between himself and Hal. The other man doesn't speak right away, and he's a lot like Slade in that respect. Quiet where it counts. 

Clark breaks before Hal, which is rather telling on the reserves of his patience today. Which is to say: close to none. 

"Come here often?" 

Hal's mouth breaks on a smile, head tipped back when he laughs. "That line ever worked?" 

Clark sighs. And then, "I'm sorry." 

"For the pick-up," Hal asks, "or the terrible performance in there?" 

He winces. "That bad?" 

"I've seen better in a middle school nativity." Hal informs him lightly. In the reflection of the glass, he meets Clark's eyes, nothing but amusement under the domino. "You think I care?" 

"Kinda, yeah." 

"Well, I don't." He replies. "Not my business." He leaves it at that, rocking back on his heels. 

Clark gets the ridiculous urge to _argue._ He should not. That would be stupid. _Not_ being asked is the goal here. Not divulging the details of his most recent mess-up. He twists both hands into the cape. 

"Unless you want it to be." 

"What." 

Hal shrugs. "You've got that sad puppy look. Bats giving you a hard time?" 

"Wha— No, well—" For lack of anything else to do, Clark folds both legs under him, floating a few feet from the floor. "It's fine. Handled." 

"Define _handled."_

"He gave me a two-day lecture. Seems calmer now." It's certainly the condensed version, but it'll do. Clark chews his tongue and avoids Hal's raised eyebrow and the absolute _calm_ that Hal radiates right then. 

"It's none of my business. You know why?" When Clark remains silent, he continues slowly, like Clark's a particularly slow child in class. "You _never_ do this, man. Whatever it is, I know it's worth it. Fuck knows you deserve some secrets every now and again. Can't let Bruce hog them all." He shifts, arms crossed, and looks Clark up and down. 

"Hal." He murmurs. 

"Don't—" The other man bites his tongue, visibly reeling back. "Don't get weepy, alright? Just— Just tell me it's something good, at least." Silently, the domino melts away, nothing but soft brown eyes and Hal's furrowed brow underneath. "You have to admit, you deserve something good." 

"It's not—" He struggles. Looks at the eastern seaboard as it spins away, Slade down there somewhere no doubt. Doing God knows what, to God knows who, for ungodly sums of money. He'd healed in a few hours, and then spent the day hogging Clark's bed until night came. Slipped out with a warm goodbye, and Clark had stamped down every urge to listen in, just in case. That had been two days ago, and there wasn't any more blood-soaked mercenaries on his bed, so Clark considered that a win. "It's not bad. It's not." 

"This have to do with that favor you asked?" 

"Yes." 

"Alright." Hal nods, something serious in his gaze. "Well, I don't have any more, but I'm officially off the clock if you want a real shitty beer and a friend." With that, he steps back, holding Clark's gaze steadily. "Just think about it." 

"Sure," he mumbles, already finding reasons not to. Of which there are many. "Thanks, Hal." 

"Don't let Bruce get you in a corner, yeah? Wouldn't know a good thing if it bit him in the ass." 

* * *

"I'm going to need at least… five more beers. Maybe six." Hal states. His heart beats like a drum in his chest, but it takes such a long moment for Clark to realize it's nothing more than excitement. Amusement. Hal's mouth curls into a grin. "Can you say that again?" 

"Hal." He huffs. Flexes his fingers over his own extremely useless beer. Alcohol does about as much as water for him, but it's nice to have the ritual. The motions. Something to occupy his hands, when he feels like he might be sick all down Hal's nice shirt. 

Navy blue. The tag's sticking out of the collar, and he doesn't have the heart to tell him. 

"What? You can't say that and not— not repeat it." Hal grins, a wicked edge to his eyes. "This is better than I thought." 

"What— what _did_ you think?" He frowns. The bar's loud enough they don't need to worry too much, but there's still a tense note in his chest. Saying _Deathstroke_ had felt like a curse, painting a target on both their backs. Slade about to abseil from the ceiling and knock them both dead. 

"Honestly?" Hal winces. "I thought you'd knocked someone up." 

Clark chokes. Grinds his teeth and stares at the scratched up table between them. 

"No wonder it was a two-day lecture." Hal comments. Amusement dances in his eyes, bright and blurry, holding Clark's gaze firmly. "He let you out again after that?" 

"He didn't _let_ me do anything. I'm an adult." 

"An adult that's fucking Dea—" 

"Don't." 

"You-know-who." Hal corrects. Snorts. Drinks from his beer in joyful silence, throat bobbing with every swallow. "Can we get nachos? I'm starving." 

"How are you taking this so—" Ineffectually, Clark waves a hand. "Hal." The other man shrugs, which just makes Clark's chest constrict that much harder. Sometimes, he really doesn't deserve people like Hal. Like Bruce, even. "I don't know what I'm doing." 

He hums, and turns his beer between his fingers to begin peeling at the label. "Having a good time? You're hardly the first." 

"Maybe not." He shrugs, eyes sliding to the rest of the room, for a moment. "Wait, first to have fun or first to—"

All of Hal's teeth flash in a grin. "Wouldn't you like to know." After a second, he shakes his head, leaning forward on their admittedly small table, squished into a corner. 

It's not a big bar, adequately busy for a weeknight, loud enough that Clark isn't _too_ worried. Still, being secluded makes him feel a little better, his back to the wall. 

"He treat you good, at least?" 

"You're not my mother." Clark comments. And then, "Not really. He's kind of a dick." 

"Sometimes that's a good thing. You're too nice." Hal throws back, setting his chin on his palm. "Maybe you need a little dick in you." 

Against his better judgment, Clark laughs. "Do you stop, ever?" 

"Not really." 

"In my defense— in _his_ defense, actually," he says, mouth twisting into a dry smile. "Sometimes he's good. He's not— not always a dick." 

"Oh?" 

"He'd kill me for saying that much." Clark replies. "I can't— it's not my place to say." He wishes he could, but he's broken enough trust today, and the thought of doing it now. Doing it to Slade, with the memory of sluggish blood staining his skin, he can't. "But he's good. Sometimes." 

"I'll take your word for it, man." He lets the conversation lie for quiet, long minutes.

There's no good reason to break the quiet when he's already said enough. More than he'd planned to. Clark finishes off his beer and starts rummaging through his pockets. "Nachos?" He asks. 

Hal's smile is lopsided and hungry. "You're the best. Anyone ever tell you that?" 

"Once or twice." He murmurs, rising from his seat with a pat to Hal's shoulder. 

When he returns, Hal's finished his beer. Tipped his chair back to rock gently against the floor. His eyes are unfocused, fixed on the trendy little string-lights hung from the ceiling. 

"I really hate this bar." Hal comments, eyes fixed on the glowing bulbs. "Feel like I'm twenty years too old for it." 

"Just because it doesn't have an American flag and fighter jet pictures hung on the walls." Clark rebukes. "Nachos." He adds, setting the bowl down with flair. "Extra cheese." 

"No wonder he likes you so much." Hal slides a few bucks his way, which doesn't really cover the frankly expensive bowl of nachos, but Clark pockets it anyway. He's got new sheets to buy, after all.

"Who said he liked me?" 

"He's still with you, isn't he?" Around a mouthful of hot, processed cheese and dry, spiced nachos, Hal laughs. "You'd be dead if he didn't like you." 

"I'm a lot harder to kill than you seem to think." 

"Everyone says that." He replies. "Till they're dead." 

"Grim. Have you been hanging out with Bruce too much?" 

"Nobody _hangs out_ with Bruce." Hal huffs. As if personally offended, he bites through a nacho with intense focus. Cheese smears over the corner of his mouth, quickly licked away. "I think he'd rather have his internal organs introduced to a vat of acid, than _hang out."_

"He's not that bad." At a more sedate pace, Clark chews his own heavily loaded chip. "We've hung out." 

"Yeah, you and everyone else on the team." His voice drops on the last word, quiet enough only Clark hears it. He also hears the bitterness there, barely hidden. "Not me. I'm just saying." 

Rather than reply, he lets those words hang in the air. Hal studiously eats his nachos, digging in deep for the tacky, orange river at the bottom. Clark watches him eat, and Hal watches him watch Hal eat, and they both listen to those words on repeat. 

Hal sucks his thumb clean. "So I'm fucking Bruce." 

Clark licks a line of grease and cheese from his index finger. "How's that going for you?" It's certainly a thought, considering how well he knows Bruce. What he knows of Hal. He reaches blindly for his beer and washes down the thought with the sharp foam of beer. 

"How do you think it's going?" Hal mutters. "About as good as asking him to fucking smile, Jesus. You'd think he'd never fucked anyone in his life." 

Clark makes a noise between a laugh and a cough. "He's that bad?" 

"Yes— wait, no. Not like that. He's very good like that. The best. He's the best at that." Hal crunches a chip between his teeth. "He's awful at the rest." He finishes, voice dry. "How can he be _so good_ at literally everything else. With the emotional capacity of a pet rock." 

"That's Bruce for you." Clark hums. "Don't take it personally." 

"Oh, I am." Hal cuts in, tone final. He waves his beer. "That ship has sailed." 

A twinge of sympathy rings in his chest. Under the soft glow of string-lights and the effect of a few beers, Hal looks tired. Looks his age, without the boyish grin, and childish innuendo. "How long?" 

"A while." Hal replies. 

"He good to you?" 

"Oh, fuck off. Don't turn this around on me." 

Clark raises his hands, leaning back in his chair. "I'm just asking." 

"What do you think?" Hal throws back, kissing his teeth. "Like I said, the emotional capacity of a pet rock." 

"Hal," Clark says. Puts on his non-threatening, here-to-help voice, the one that comes with the cape. "Does he _know_ you want more? Because this is Bruce we're talking about." 

Hal squints, brown eyes dark and unfocused. He sips his beer quietly. "How about we worry about your relationship, not mine?" 

"I'd much rather worry about yours." He admits, free of shame. It's nice, to know he's not the only one wading through cryptic, emotional bullshit. 

"Then we are at an impasse." 

He raises an eyebrow, reaching for the bowl. He tugs it closer, popping a few into his mouth before he speaks. "You catch the game?" 

"Which one." 

"I dunno. The game. Isn't that what normal people talk about?" He cocks his head, watching Hal's seriousness melt away, small dimples forming in his cheeks as his smile grows. Mission accomplished, he supposes.

"You are such a square. No, I did not catch the game. I take it you didn't, either?" 

"Afraid not." He hums. "It's not the end of the world, Hal. You'll figure it out. Nobody's fluent in Bruce-speak in a day." 

"It's been _weeks._ " 

"Try months." He replies, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "You know anyone who's fluent in mercenary?" 

"Probably Bruce." 

"Probably." He agrees. Sighs, and digs out his wallet again. "Another round?" 


	5. Chapter 5

Clark can, on occasion, lift entire buildings. Stop fighter jets in their tracks. He can hang around in the vacuum of space and feel nothing more than a chill, ice crystals on his eyelashes. 

He can do incredible things. Things that sometimes even _he_ can't believe. Every day, there is a new limit to break. A new task to put himself to. And he succeeds. Every. Single. Day. 

The key drops from his hands due to all the sweat, and Clark curses quietly. It takes three tries to pick it up, all of his fingers not bothering to listen to him anymore. 

Years ago, forever ago— he used to get stomach aches, all his muscles locked tight in situations like this. Would go hungry, and lie down, and try to block out the buzz of Kansas outside his bedroom window. 

He hasn't felt like that in years, and now it's back in full force. Clark exhales. Tries to remember that he knows Slade. He also knows there's no kryptonite in his apartment. Logically, there's no reason to be scared.

But, then, he also _knows_ Slade. And he knows that little key is going to be like a grenade in his hands if he doesn't do it right. Feels like a live one in his own hands, such a heavy weight. 

Heavier than a building. Clark's fingers curl around the little piece of metal, not quite sure if he could crush it right then when it feels like all his strength has been sapped away. Or possibly sunk to his feet, along with his stomach, and every other vital organ he possesses. 

Slade's door is not familiar, but he remembers it at least. Plain grey, no number. He stares at it for an impossibly long time, the muscles of his abdomen clenched tight. 

"Okay," he murmurs. Shifts forward, but it's more of a lean, his feet glued firmly to the floor. "Alright." Clark leans back. "Fuck." 

He should go. Turn around and leave it in Slade's mailbox. Better yet, he should not leave the key at all. 

They're fine. 

Slade can knock like a normal person, and Clark can let him in. And he can scale the wall if he's _really_ desperate, or in the mood to give Clark a headache on nights he works late. 

It's fine. Don't fix what isn't broken, and all that. 

He may throw up on his shoes, but it's fine. They were second-hand anyway. Slade might not appreciate that. Might start them off on the wrong foot. 

Clark goes to knock, and finds himself beaten there by the door swinging open. 

Slade. Sweatpants and matching grey sweatshirt. Clark's sweatshirt, actually. His eyebrow is perfectly arched for maximum piercing quality, sticking Clark to the floor. 

All he can think is how _nice_ Slade looks, hair tied back loosely, a mug in his hands that is no doubt equal parts whiskey to coffee. 

"Are you trying to burn a hole in my door? Is that what that was?" He asks, head cocking sharply. A loose strand of hair falls out from behind his ear. 

If he didn't have the key weighing down his hands, he'd reach out, tuck it back into place. Probably piss Slade off in the process. Clark's mouth works silently for a long moment, words stuck somewhere in his diaphragm. 

"Are you mind-controlled right now? Do I need to call your mother?" One blue eye sharpens, squinted. Slade sips his coffee. "Well, this has been nice." With that, he begins closing the door again. 

"Wait—" He mumbles, suddenly unstuck, all of that motivation to _move_ suddenly working, propelling him forward. He slams a hand between the door and it's frame, Slade none too kind when he boots it shut a little harder. "Wait, just, I just—" 

"What is this." Slade says, rather than asks, so much venom on his tongue. He'd flinch, if he wasn't nearly immune to it now. 

Slade's always an asshole in the morning. It's barely nine. 

"I came to see you." He replies. Doesn't really explain anything besides his presence, which is obvious already, and Slade's face darkens that little bit more. 

"You've seen me. Anything else?" 

He doesn't fight when Clark wedges the door open a little more, though, nothing more than a soft sigh when Clark invites himself in. Doing this in the hallway was not an option. Not knowing how heavily armed Slade can be, at least. 

"Christ," Slade mumbles, turning on his heel to head for the coffee machine again. Fair. "Do I even want to know?" 

"I hope so." Anything more than that gets stopped at the back of his mouth, constricted by the muscles in his throat. He has never, in all his life, _choked_. This must be what it feels like. 

In his chest, Clark's heart beats about a thousand times quicker than it should. Might even be audible to a man like Slade, and that only brings colour to the tips of his ears. 

"Want some?" Slade asks, head bent to fiddle with the machine. In _his_ chest, his heart beats slow, methodical, the same sound no matter how many times Clark's tuned in. 

Without an answer, Slade plucks a mug from the nearest cabinet. 

"Thanks," Clark murmurs. Daylight streams in from the furthest window, overlooking the couch, and so he walks on numb feet to settle there. 

He's sitting here, albeit tense and anxious to the nth degree. But he's _here._ In a mercenary's home. Or safehouse, whatever. The technicalities don't really matter, when he can spot a closet full of ammunition packed tight into a locked box. The wall-mounted knives. 

He blinks. The grenade launcher in the bedroom, propped against a wall. Blinks again, and forgets that little fact immediately for his own sake. 

Evidently, he's got his stuff back. Slade hadn't mentioned a trip away, but then, he never does. 

It was surprising enough to even find him at home. Clark had checked, every other minute, that his heart was still beating in the same building, lungs still pulling in air in Gotham. Even so, a small part of him had expected Slade to be gone between one moment and the next, slipped out the backdoor in silence. 

Turning back up in Clark's life on the national news, or a grainy, red-tinged photograph taken halfway down a sand dune. 

Slade hands him his coffee in silence and then simply stands, bare feet buried in a plush carpet. 

"Something's wrong." Slade states. Curious. "Either someone's dead, or you're about to ask me for a favour." 

"Uh," Clark swallows. "Neither." He blows cool air over the rim of his mug, inhaling a sharp shot of dark roast. "I just— can't I come and see you? Am I not allowed?" 

"Clark, you look like you haven't taken a shit in a week, and someone ran over your puppy five minutes ago." Slade's mouth does something, a little flicker of emotion that he's not quite able to make out. "Do I need to kill someone?" 

"No? No." Clark coughs. "Can you, uh, can you just sit down?" 

"Shit." Slade mutters, promptly falling into the seat beside him. Too close for Clark's comfort right then, not that there's much he could do to him. "Okay." 

"Don't—" 

"Oh, it's _bad."_ Slade cuts in, no glee in his voice. "Spit it out." 

"I'm just saying, give it a minute, okay?" 

"I make no promises." 

"Slade." He says. Packs all he can into that one word, eyebrows crinkling in concern. 

"I give you one minute, and not a minute more." He replies, tone even. Holds Clark's gaze like it's important, like he means it. For a man like Slade, it's possibly the most he's ever given him. A minute, and nothing more. A promise. 

"Okay." Air rushes out between his teeth in a sigh. In his palm, the key feels impossibly heavy. "I trust you, Slade." 

Slade makes a neutral sound in his throat.

"And I meant what I said about— about us. All of it." Clark's teeth ache, with how hard he's grinding them, the tiny little words getting stuck in his throat. "And I hope you meant it, too." 

"Depends which part." Slade replies, but his voice is quiet, his stare guarded. He sips his coffee quietly, elbows on knees. "I think I called you some very unflattering things." 

"Not that, then." Clark agrees. "But the other things. I've been thinking, and—" 

"This is a very long minute." Slade comments. 

"I'm getting there." He huffs. Meets Slade's eye from the corner of his own, not even breathing at this point. Breakfast might make a reappearance soon, if he's not careful. 

To his credit, Slade goes quiet. But then so does Clark, throat working silently, no words coming out of his mouth. Just frozen and choking and terrified of— of what, he doesn't even know. 

Slade's biting words, perhaps. The way he manages to look at him, sometimes, cruel and cold and closed off. How it makes Clark feel, when he's rebuffed and shut out. 

Rather than speak, he holds out his hand, and waits for the long, tense seconds Slade takes to look. The moment happens, and Slade's heartbeat skyrockets briefly. Slade sips his coffee calmly. 

"What's that." 

"The key to my apartment." Clark answers. His hand shakes where it's outstretched, the tiny little piece of metal cradled in his palm. "A spare. For you." He inhales, urging his hand toward Slade, more insistent. "I want you to have it." 

Slade squints. "Why?" And then, by some miracle, he takes the key, turning it over between skilled fingers. 

"So you can come over." Clark says. "Whenever you want. I'm not— If you want to be there, that's fine by me. More than fine, even." 

Slade raises an eyebrow. "How sweet." 

"You really want me to say it?" He sighs. Watches with rapt attention as Slade pockets the key, his hand lingering there for a second. In his chest, Slade's heartbeat still beats heavily. "I want you there." 

Audibly, Slade swallows. He puffs cool air over the rim of his mug, the edge of his beard a little rough, tired lines under his single eye. Clark worries his tongue between his teeth, caught off guard by the sudden tightness in his chest. 

Without thinking, he leans over, pressing a kiss to the corner of Slade's tired, faint smile. 

"Don't expect one from me." Slade mumbles into his mouth, nearly shocking a laugh from Clark's chest. And then, quietly, "Thanks." 

Such a small word, barely aduible, and it makes Clark feel like he's fucking _glowing_ , leaning into the soft press of Slade's mouth. "Any time." He says, finally leaning back. 

All that worrying. Since yesterday. And Slade wipes it clear as easy as anything, the corners of his mouth tipped lightly as he takes a mouthful of coffee. Clark grins, and doesn't quite know what to do with his limbs when he'd rather be in the air right then. Kind of wants to call his Ma, except there's nothing else to say besides he gave Slade a key, and it didn't blow up in his face. 

Clark's chest feels lighter than it has all day. 

"You know," Slade says. "You could have led with that. The key or the kiss. Thought I'd have to get the swords out." 

"I'd rather you didn't." Clark snorts. Meets Slade's gaze from the corner of his eye and can't fight the laugh that bubbles up, shoulders shaking. 

"You really worked yourself up about this, didn't you?" Beside him, Slade shifts. A little closer to Clark, in fact, enough that he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. "I don't know if you noticed, but it's early. I'm too tired to—" 

"Freak out?" Clark tries.

"Whatever you want to call it." He mutters. Shrugs. "I want to be back in bed. It's too early." 

Clark smiles into his coffee. "Really? Didn't see this ending with you sleeping." 

"Not in the mood for an argument." He repeats. 

"I wasn't thinking of an argument." Well— he _was_ , but their arguments tended to end in other ways. Sometimes it just took a little longer to get there. 

Slade's heartbeat ticks up slightly. He still looks tired, softened at the edges. His eyebrow raises a fraction. "We should fuck." He announces. 

"I thought you wanted to sleep." He teases lightly, enjoying the affronted noise Slade makes. 

"Sex, then sleep." 

"I really think you should sleep." Clark cuts in. Fixes a concerned, eyebrows knitted together type of expression, met only by Slade's flat stare. And then, "Let me take you to bed." 

Slade's mouth twitches. "If you insist." 

"I do." He agrees. Sets his coffee down lightly, Slade throwing his back before he sets the empty mug down beside his. He expects at least a little resistance to his leaning over, palms sliding under Slade's thighs, but there is none. 

"Don't drop me." Is all Slade says, voice tight. Curls his fingers into the collar of Clark's shirt when he's lifted, pressing in close. Warm and steady against his chest, and the firmness of his erection isn't missed either, rubbing against his abdomen with every step. 

"Slade, I can carry buildings." 

"Good for you. Don't drop me." He reiterates, and turns his head when Clark shifts his grip. Gets a good handful in the process, squeezing tight, and elbowing the door open. 

There _is_ a grenade launcher in the bedroom. Clark blinks at it once and then drops Slade onto his bed, the other man bouncing slightly.

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" Slade snarks, right up until Clark is climbing over him, kicking his shoes off as he goes. 

"Shut up," he says, punctuating it with a heavy kiss, sliding into his mouth with practiced ease. Slade meets him halfway, sinking into the mattress with a soft sigh. 

"Bossy." He murmurs, in between attempting to tug Clark's head to the side. He huffs, and settles instead for mouthing at his throat. The taste of coffee and toothpaste lingers on his tongue, Clark's hands coming up to fumble at Slade's soft hair and press him in close. 

Quick fingers get rid of his shirt, and then Slade's, and then the rest, and he can officially tick _fuck in the same room as a grenade launcher_ off his bucket list. Not that it was ever there to begin with. Warm, skilled hands slip into his underwear, shocking a groan from Clark's throat, his toes curling. 

He bucks into the warmth of Slade's palm immediately, gratified when Slade's teeth nip at his skin. There won't be a mark, but that's beside the point when he can feel the heat behind the action anyway. 

"Turn over." Slade mumbles. Bites his clavicle with all his teeth, holding for a second, a pleasurable sort of pressure. 

"You want to top?" 

Slade snorts. "I want to fucking ride you." 

"Well, you can hardly sleep like that." He receives a squeeze to his cock, tight enough it should hurt but only has his thighs tensing instead, bucking forwards again. "Fuck." 

"Turn over." Slade repeats. Suckles on his throat sharply, all wet heat, Clark unable to do anything besides obey. He misses the body under his immediately, settling at the head of the bed to kick his pants off. 

Slade pauses, fingers at the waistband of his sweats. The sharpness of his gaze feels a lot like a knife, if Clark had ever known the touch of one, piercing and cold as he takes in all of Clark's bared skin, the jut of his cock, slick at the crown and reddened. 

The urge to cover himself is nearly unbearable. 

And then Slade begins undressing quicker, kicking out of his sweats even as he crawls the length of the bed. Settles on Clark's hips heavily to capture his mouth again, a growl in his chest. 

It's new, for sure. Slade makes for a sturdy weight, settled over him with perfect accuracy, his own cock heavy and thick. He can't help reaching between them, grip strong and sure when he jerks them both, earning another growl. 

He kisses back as good as he's given, bites down on Slade's harsh mouth until the other man moans, leaning back. Works his way down in practiced motions, leaving bruises and kisses in equal measure, and somewhere in all that Slade leans over for the nightstand, rifling through it with a curse. 

He returns, and doesn't even give Clark the option of working him open, simply does it himself with a groan. Slade is rough with himself, quick motions at all the wrong angle, and the twitch of his cock in Clark's fingers is unmistakable.

"Been thinking about this?" He asks. Sounds like someone else to his own ears — deep and rough, hands on autopilot when he reaches up and slots his fingers around Slade's vulnerable throat.

He'd never seen the appeal until that first time. Pale skin flushing under his grip. The jolt of Slade's throat as he struggled to swallow, and how good his jaw had looked against the ring of his hand, tilted up to a painful angle. Red creeps across Slade's cheeks, and the sharp angle of his collarbones. 

Red suits Slade. Bruises suit Slade. Clark's hand suits him even better, he decides, and gives a firm squeeze, feeling the other man tense across his thighs briefly, the rapid rise of his chest halted. 

Such a powerful feeling from such a small motion. Clark exhales shakily and doesn't hesitate when Slade's hand retreats, hips bucking up in silent invitation. 

All the encouragement Clark needs, letting Slade go long enough to grip his cock tightly. Takes a bit of work, Clark's teeth grit at that first burst of heat. Nearly overwhelming with how tight Slade is, sinking onto him like a vise. They both moan when he takes the crown of his cock, and after that it's a steady ride down, Slade's thighs tensed around his hips. 

"Oh, fuck," Clark mumbles, the same time Slade tips forward, the damp waves of his hair landing on Clark's shoulder. He rolls his hips up, presses in until there's nothing but skin-on-skin and wishes he could stay there forever. Buried to the hilt in Slade's warm body, glorious tightness that sets every nerve on fire if he lets it, if he gives in and lets that feeling swallow him whole. 

It's so easy to get stuck on the little things. Clark's spent a lifetime tuning them out, he's well practiced in it. Slade makes him want to sink into those little, overwhelming moments again and again, too much and nearly painful in intensity, and then he does something like _clench_ around Clark's cock and he knows he's done. 

"Don't you dare move." Slade says, voice rough and hoarse. Clark slots his hand back over the man's throat tightly, just because he can, because he loves the disgruntled noise Slade tries for, because he's so damn good on his cock like this. 

Split open and vulnerable and it takes nothing at all to nudge Slade back, seated on him fully. A cut waist and the broad marks of Slade's shoulders, scarred like a roadmap and Clark's bruises on display. That blue eye, meeting Clark's without fear, without judgement. 

"Ride me, then." He says. Sounds steady and sure, and does his best to lean into it. Head tipped back, propped up on soft pillows and Slade's cold headboard, so much easier to let Slade have his fill with a hungry gaze when he's choked out on his cock, tightening around him in pulses. 

Slade grunts. Lifts his hips in one strong movement, not slow now, and sinks down with determination. Every inch is torturous, but the sight makes it all worth it, Slade's abdomen tense and that beautiful red creeping down his skin. 

Clark meets him at the last inch, drives himself home with clenched teeth. Slade _whimpers,_ his cock bobbing between them. He'll never tire of that sound, or the particular look that floods Slade's face as he makes it — equal parts shameful and vulnerable, and then it clears, replaced by a slack-jawed kind of pleasure. 

He wants to see that expression all the time. 

Outside of bed, he's never seen Slade make anything _close_ to that expression. Vulnerability is not something Slade allows, that much is clear, except when Clark pushes. 

He pushes a little more and brings his other hand around to circle Slade's cock, gripping the base tight. Hard enough to hurt, possibly, if the wobbling noise he makes is any indication. Slade _moves_ , strong strokes up to the tip of his cock, and quick, heavy slides down, perfect and practiced moves that have heat pooling in Clark's stomach with every rise and fall. 

Slade sinks down on him again, his gaze wavering between the ceiling and Clark's own eyes, full of _something._ Some heat, some urgency, and he rolls his hips just right, filled up with Clark's cock, the urge to spill hot praise and warm, filthy words so strong in Clark's chest he bites his lip to stop it. 

What he'd give, to have Slade _say_ all that behind his eyes. All those words lurking under his skin. 

It doesn't take long, not at all, before Clark's grip tightens that little bit more and then _stops_ — definitely painful, Slade's strangled noise evidence enough as Clark's orgasm floods through him, toes curled into the sheets and hips bucking into Slade until he's lifted fully from the bed, only Clark's shoulders remaining against the pillows. 

He growls something unintelligible, white noise in his head and his bones and his aching, tense muscles. Just as quickly, he lets go, Slade sucking in grateful lungfuls of air. 

Clark strokes him to completion in two quick movements, feather-light touches that rip a broken, nearly sobbing noise from his throat, muscles trembling. 

"Fuck," Slade coughs, his mouth red and bitten and blood drips from the corner. Clark can't help tugging him forward to lick into his mouth, running over the slight split in Slade's lax tongue. He settles against him, boneless and still on his cock, a steady, safe weight. Does nothing more than hum when Clark's hand runs through his hair, damp and a little tangled. 

"That was good." Clark mumbles. Turns his head to mouth at Slade's temple. In return, he receives a clench around his cock, Slade humming in agreement. "Was that your way of saying thank you?" 

"Oh, fuck off." Slade grumbles. The tip of his nose presses into Clark's throat, his forehead damp with overexertion. He allows him to trace his skin in silence, coming down from his orgasm gently, every limb warm and comfortable in a way he isn't usually. 

He picks out the beat of Slade's heart, the rasp of breath in his bruised, fragile throat. The minute, small ways that Slade melts into him. Wants to live in these kinds of moments, nothing _but_ these moments, where the outside world is distant and muted compared to Slade's body wrapped around his. 

"I should go," he finally says. The words are difficult to get out, pulled from the very bottom of his chest. He doesn't want to go. 

Can't really think of a good reason to go, either. 

He's off work today. Everyone who needs it already has his number, in case of emergency. The fish were fed this morning, and Slade's is making leaps and bounds in terms of socialising, which he'll _have_ to mention some time. 

There isn't any reason to leave. Clark's chest tightens. 

Slade doesn't reply. It takes him the longest time to realise he's not being ignored, but rather— Slade's asleep. Soft puffs of breath against his shoulder, his fingers curled around Clark's bicep, slumped against him in complete trust. 

Still split open on his dick, too. 

Clark swallows heavily, a little afraid to move at first. Finally, he decides the risk is worth it, shuffling until he can tug the comforter up over Slade's waist, and then burying his fingers in his soft hair to play with the strands. 

He doesn't want to leave, and miraculously, he thinks, Slade doesn't want him to either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, the key giving was one of the first things planned for this fic. Did not plan for them to fuck and cockwarm after but, hey. It all worked out.


	6. Chapter 6

Slade makes lunch. It's something of an event, if only for Slade's particular method of cooking: conquer and destroy. Knives are, apparently, multipurpose tools, and why simply slice onions when you can obliterate them without so much as a shed tear? 

He forgets until he's halfway through frying bacon that Clark won't eat it, and it's far too amusing to interrupt, Clark sitting cross-legged on the couch. It's touching, in it's own little way, Slade muttering as he dumps the pan and scrubs it clean. 

"You're worse than Wintergreen." He says, apropos of nothing. 

Clark's mouth twitches. "I am?" 

Slade grunts. It's difficult— talking about these things. He knows that. Let's Slade work through it in silence, before he finally says, "Worst backseat cook I've ever known." 

"I haven't said anything." He protests. Can't fight the smile that crawls onto his face when Slade shoots him a glare, hair a little tangled still, Clark's fingers playing with it all day. "How is that worse?" 

"I can practically _hear_ your _thoughts._ " As he says this, he sets about dismembering a collection of tomatoes. Clark briefly wonders if this is the only thing he knows how to cook. 

"I was just thinking," he shrugs, "Never seen a knife be so useful." 

"Knives are extremely useful." Slade replies. Chops a little more, before setting aside said knife. "They tend not to fail you." 

"And spoons do?" 

He shrugs. "You want your eggs fried or scrambled?" 

"Oh, I get a choice?" 

"Scrambled it is." 

He snorts. Cradles the cup of coffee between his hands, still not quite sure what he's feeling besides _light._ Like he's missing a pressure he hadn't noticed until it was gone, replaced by a weightlessness, a warmth that he wants to have always. 

Slade had slipped the key onto his regular keyring, before he'd left the bed. Clark had done his best not to make a _thing_ of it, and kissed the side of his throat before climbing out of bed, too. 

Not saying things was, sometimes, good. 

"What's he like?" And sometimes, saying things _was_ good. Clark bit his tongue, waiting on a response. 

Slade's talented hands didn't miss a beat, working the knife fluidly on a chopping block. His heart stutters instead. "Wintergreen?" 

"Yes." 

"He's fine." Nonchalantly, he shrugs. A blatant lie, if the skip and beat of his heart is anything to go by, lungs barely moving. "He's Wintergreen." 

"Feel like I know him already." He deadpans. 

"I don't know— he's—" Slade sighs. "He's a friend. I told you." When Clark doesn't prod anymore, letting the words hang in the air, Slade huffs. "I've known him so long, it's hard to say what he's like. He's just Wintergreen to me." 

He mulls that over, nodding despite Slade facing away. Sips his coffee quietly, and can't help being reminded of Bruce, at least a little. "Sounds like you trust him." 

"Have to." He replies. Leaves it at that, silence ensuing, but it's not bad. Doesn't leave unease in his gut like Slade's silences usually do. 

It's nice. He feels so light he could fucking _float._

Not twenty minutes later, there's food being placed into his hands, Slade's eyebrow raised. 

Clark takes a bite, slow with each chew, earning himself an annoyed glance. "Passable." He finally says, and lasts only a second before he cracks, a smile curving his mouth. 

"Well don't fall over yourself with the praise," Slade grumbles. Stands for a second, almost visibly considering the choice, before he joins Clark on the couch. Folds his legs under himself and eats like he hasn't in a week. 

Might not have. Clark has no clue. 

"Been busy?" He asks lightly, staring into fluffy scrambled eggs. 

Slade chews thoughtfully. "Working." And then, "Got my stuff back, too." 

"I noticed." Clark tilts his head. "The grenade launcher?" 

"It seemed useful at the time." He shrugs. Shifts beside Clark, possibly an accident but just as likely a conscious choice when he leans into his side. "Looked fun." 

"Launching grenades." He repeats. "Looked fun." 

"Don't knock it 'till you try it." Slade smiles, fork held half an inch from his mouth. "It's very satisfying."

Clark frowns, briefly. Thinks of all the things Slade has launched _grenades_ at in his time. Buildings and people, probably a few cars. Testament to how fucking _deep_ he is in this that he can't also help thinking of Slade's grin under his mask, apparently having _fun._

"I'll take your word for it." He decides. "I take it you're sticking around, then?" 

"I did promise, didn't I?" 

"You did." He agrees. Focuses on his plate just to fight down the smile that tugs at his cheeks. "Thank you." He adds, much softer. 

Slade grunts. "Don't make it a thing." 

"I can't make anything a _thing,_ can I?" It is — obviously — the wrong thing to say. Clark is well aware of that fact by now. Regrets it the moment he speaks, hearing Slade's heavy inhale, the pause in the scrape of his cutlery. 

Slade sighs. Sets his fork down with a clatter. 

"Slade—" 

"Shut up." Slade mutters. And then, quieter, "This is what I get for dating a _reporter._ Can't leave anything alone, can you?"

"Investigative journalist but—" Clark bites his lip. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for." 

"Yeah, fuck you or whatever." He picks his fork back up, gripping it tightly before the tension sinks out of him, slouched into the couch. "I'd really like to have one nice day without you—" He cuts off, huffing loudly. "I am well fucking aware of my shortcomings in your eyes, Clark." 

"I didn't mean it like that." He tips his head. Stares into his eggs like they might have some answers. He'd really like to go back by about three minutes, start all over again. 

If this is the only thing Slade can cook, well, he cooks it well. Clark chews and barely tastes anything. This time, it's him throwing his fork down with a clatter, pushing his plate to the coffee table. 

"You don't have shortcomings in my eyes." Clark bites his tongue, briefly. Not sure how to continue, when he can practically _hear_ Slade fuming beside him, ready to blow. "But I'd like to be happy about the progress we've made. And you won't let me do that." 

Tense, he watches Slade from the corner of his eye. The other man's jaw clenched tight, glaring at a spot on his knee like it's the reason for all his ire. 

Clark steels himself. Reminds himself the knife gripped in Slade's hand can't _actually_ do him any damage. "I think you've got shortcomings in your own eyes, Slade." Briefly, Slade's eyebrows climb his forehead, a bitter kind of disbelief. "And I'd really like to be happy with you. About us." 

The silence that follows is cold, fucking _frigid_ with how tense Slade is beside him. Coiled and ready to explode right in his face. Turns the knife over in his fingers, eyebrows crushed tight. 

"I am." Slade says. Quiet and like grit. "It's not fucking _easy,_ Clark." Closes his eye briefly, exhaling slowly. "I wouldn't be sticking around if I wasn't— You wouldn't be sitting _here_ , in my _safehouse,_ if I wasn't happy about it." 

"I know that." He murmurs. "But I'd really like to be able to say I'm happy being here. In your safehouse." And he _is_. He sure as hell is. "Because I am. And I'm glad you're staying—" He holds up a hand, Slade's mouth already opening. "I'm not asking for some big declaration, Slade." 

"Well, what do you want me to say? Yeah, I told you I was staying. Here I am." He throws up his hands, motioning to the room at large, knife and all. 

"That's all." Clark shrugs. "That's enough for me, Slade." Curls his legs tighter under himself when he leans over, getting the distinct feeling he may be punched when he reaches out. Grips Slade's wrist tightly, tugging it down until he can hold his hand. 

"You're insufferable." Slade throws back, absolutely no heat. More resignation, shifting uncomfortably in Clark's grip. "Whatever." He adds, softer.

Clark grins. "Thank you." He waits, watching Slade's teeth grind before he turns his head, leans into Clark's space. 

Slade doesn't say anything, just presses his nose in beside Clark's, kissing him briefly. Good enough for Clark. More than. 

With a grin, he pulls back to tug his plate back onto his crossed legs, gone a little cold by now. Still tastes good, he decides, relieved when Slade returns to his food as well. 

It's Slade who breaks the silence when he's finished up and collecting Clark's plate, a little muted when he asks, "How's my fish?" 

Clark blinks. "Good." 

"Riveting." Slade snorts. Sets about collecting the multiple knives he'd apparently needed to make lunch. 

"He likes the cave, still." Clark shrugs. "But he's been out more often. Socialising." 

Slade hums. "You're awfully sure it's a _he._ " 

"Got dominance issues like one." Clark informs him lightly. "Been biting my other fish, by the way." 

"They'll live." Slade replies, not worried in the least. "That's normal isn't it, when you add a new one?" 

"Sometimes." With the couch clear, he unfolds his legs, stretching out. Looks at Slade upside-down, head hung over the armrest. "He's a lot like his owner." 

"Funny." Slade snarks. Dumps everything in the sink and then leaves it there, returning to stand at Clark's head. Eyebrow raised, head cocked. 

"You could come see him sometime." 

"He's a fish in a glass box." Slade states. Clark grins. "He doesn't know what's happening beyond his—" He stops short, a thoughtful look taking over his face.

"Nose?" Clark supplies.

"Do fish have noses?" He asks. 

Not often there's something _Slade_ doesn't know, and so Clark takes great enjoyment of nodding slowly, each word enunciated. "They've got nares. Works like a nose." 

Slade huffs. "Well, there you go. You think it cares if I'm there or not?" 

"It's not about the fish." Nevermind that Clark is of the opinion it _definitely_ matters. He's at least ninety percent sure his fish are extra active on the days he returns from a long mission away, or long nights at the office. 

Slade rolls his eye, tipping his head back. Clark tugs on his sweatpants, smile growing when Slade moves, coming to straddle his waist. "If it'll stop your pestering," Slade sighs. "I'll come visit the fish that isn't missing me at all." 

"I'd like that." Clark murmurs. Sets his hands on Slade's hips, thumbs burrowing under his sweatshirt to press against warm skin. "He'd like that, too." He adds.

"Oh, be quiet." Slade mutters, reaching for a cushion to no doubt shove over Clark's face. Instead, Clark digs his thumbs in, hard enough to hurt, watching the shiver that travels down Slade's spine. 

"Can think of a few ways to shut me up." He says lightly. Soothes the earlier hurt with slow circles into Slade's skin. 

Slade squints. "How the— You expect me to get it up _again?"_ Despite this, he rocks against Clark, abandoning his previous plan in favour of setting his hands on Clark's chest. "Told you, you're insufferable."

Clark grins a little wider, accepting the kiss that Slade leans down to give him. 


End file.
